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“Aliens. Mother fucking aliens.”
“Oh, please, it’s not any weirder than some of the shit that comes out of the labs.”
“Yeah, but that’s man-made , not fucking extraterrestrial . Aliens? You’re not freaking out over aliens? The fuck is wrong with you?”
“Let’s put it this way. Right now? I am infinitely more terrified of that thing in front of us than any mother fucking aliens.”
“...you have a point there.”
The thing in question can only be the asset; aside from the asset, there is no other living thing within the asset’s maintained perimeter that could pose a threat to the three technicians at its back. And even if they were, they would have to go through the asset first, and from experience, the Asset knows that is not an enjoyable prospect for most.
The asset pauses at the mouth an alley, scanning for signs of danger it raises a hand to signal the technicians should halt, but it knows they’ve already stopped, attuned to his movements in a way that resembles prey tracking a predator. It’s obvious something passed through this area not too long ago, if the smoking rubble and still-bleeding bodies are any indications, but there doesn’t appear to be any lingering threats in the area. The asset remains cautious, however, as he rounds the corner, beckoning the group to follow; it wouldn’t do to be caught off guard when hostiles could appear from multiple entry points. It isn’t often the asset has to provide countermeasures for airborne targets and the mission prep time was not sufficient to plan out all possible contingencies.
The asset feels exposed here in this city in a way that it is not exactly mission-compliant.
The chatter of its charges washes over it, filtered for relevant information before the rest of it is summarily disregarded.
“I hate that they pulled us away from our projects for this…”
“You could be dead right now, and that’s what you’re concerned about?”
“Hey, some of us are involved in some very high-profile, time-sensitive work and this delay could set us back for months!”
“Again, you could be dead . And if you’re dead your precious work wouldn’t just be delayed, it wouldn’t ever get finished.”
“Bullshit, they’d put someone else to work on it. I want my goddamn recognition, I deserve this!”
“You know what else you des-- holy fucking shit what is that?!”
That , the Asset thinks pointedly, is a motherfucking alien .
The creatures -- three of them, standing in a loose formation without a visible leader, exotic weapons held in combat-ready stances that appear to be universal -- stand taller than the asset and possess powerful builds that suggest an equal combination of speed and strength. They chitter at one another, having not yet noticed the asset and its charges despite the shrill noises exiting one of the technicians’ mouths. The creatures are loitering, the asset thinks, merely observing the area rather than wreaking havoc like the others of their kind. It doesn’t know why nor does it care to; what matters is whether or not the asset is capable of dispatching three of them at once.
A faint whir emanates from the metal arm as the plates realign themselves in preparation for an imminent fight. The asset curls its metal fingers into a fist and makes another gesture with its flesh hand, warning the technicians to back away and keep themselves distanced from the altercation. It hears them snap to attention, the low fearful murmurs dying out as they rush to comply; they don’t go far, too wary of encountering another set of aliens without the Asset to protect them, but they’ve left the immediate area and that’s enough.
It takes the first creature by surprise, driving its fist into the back of its head with a sickening thwack . It doubles over, screeching in alarm, as its companions whirl around to engage the asset. It backs off quickly, drawing a knife from its belt in each hand to ward off the initial retaliation. The asset would prefer to attack from a distance, make use of the many guns strapped to its uniform, but long-distance combat has proved to be ineffective against these creatures. It hadn’t been given the appropriate high-caliber bullets, rushed as it was from cryo and sent out on this mission; it’s fortunate the asset’s hand-to-hand prowess is as refined as it is.
Despite being outnumbered the asset is hardly hindered in its fight against these creatures. They may be fast but the asset is faster still, and it ducks and dodges their strikes with ease as it lands ones of its own at vital points. It isn’t long until only one of them is left standing, and the asset darts forward to meet its charge--
“Hey! You need some help over there?”
The asset freezes, the metal arm making a very unpleasant sound as the plates tighten past the point of necessity, grating against one another in the process. It’s no more than a quiet buzzing in the asset’s ears, easily ignored as it wrenches its head around to locate the source of that voice.
It knows that voice.
It knows that voice .
Said source is standing roughly twenty yards away from the Asset, hand lifted in a wave. Blond, even with the ash and grime in his hair, muscular and glaringly noticeable due to the outlandish red, white and blue outfit he’s wearing, the man is watching the Asset with undisguised interest; although even as the asset looks him over the man’s face is contorting into a look of horror, eyes widening and mouth dropping open in blatant concern. The asset doesn’t have the faintest idea what the man is finding troubling -- that is, until the incoming body meets his fist, nearly jarring him from his stance and sending him staggering back a few steps to avoid toppling over completely. The creature foolishly didn’t divert its path once the Asset stopped, and subsequently rammed itself into its immobile fist, impaling itself. Gritting its teeth, the asset withdraws its hand and shakes the blood and viscera from the no longer gleaming metal.
It hardly cares about the state of its most trusted weapon, however, not with the blond man making his way closer to the asset, his strides purposeful but his intent unclear. The asset remains motionless, its mind having ground to a halt the moment it laid eyes on the man.
[ Mission Objective: Escort technicians out of the city and to Hydra stronghold before returning for maintenance
This does not allow for delays. This does not allow for dalliances. This does not allow for the asset to be distracted by a large blond man with a smile that causes something in the asset’s chest to twinge in response]
“Hey,” the man says, shooting off a salute that would certainly not pass military muster. “Thanks for pitching in with the civilians. And the, uh, other situation. I appreciate the assist.”
Assist? What did the asset assist with? And what civilians is this man referring to? Another darting sweep of the street reveals several bodies that the Asset had assumed to be dead; but they’re breathing, slowly but surely pulling themselves from the ruins of their city. The asset frowns and returns to studying the man. He is not a threat; while he is larger than the asset the metal arm and the asset’s training make that a negligible difference between them. He carries a shield strapped to his arm in the same colors as his unsightly uniform but no other visible weapons, which seems… tactically unsound. What if he is separated from his shield? That uniform does not appear to be bullet-resistant in any capacity, and the asset would bet its life on it being for show rather than function.
More important is the question of how the asset knows this man.
“What’s your name?”
The question leaves its lips of its own volition, and the asset can do nothing to call it back. Instead, it watches the man intently for a reaction, noting the slight frown that pulls at his mouth, the creases that appear in his brow. He wrinkles his nose slightly before drawing himself up to his full height and offers his hand. For what the asset isn’t sure; it isn’t a violent action, at least, so the asset dismisses it.
“Captain America,” the man says, and that is right, somehow, but not right ; it doesn’t fit into the puzzle that has infested the asset’s mind, doesn’t make anything clearer. This man is Captain America but that is not why the asset knows him.
It takes an involuntary step forward, as though caught in the man’s gravitational pull, helpless but to move towards him. The man doesn’t retreat, at least.
“No. No, that’s… Your name , what’s your name ?” the Asset repeats, the unfamiliar bile of desperation coating its mouth as it forces the words out. This is important, this is… this is--
Everything.
“...Steve. Steve Rogers.”
A zing of recognition shoots down asset’s spine, bringing with it an influx of unfamiliar warmth that radiates outward from its chest. The asset is suddenly overcome with energy, its body snapping to attention even as it practically vibrates with the need to move, to do… something . Something that includes wrapping itself in its entirety around Steve Rogers and not letting him go for the world. The asset only just keeps it jaw from dropping, clenching its teeth with a hopefully inaudible clack . No protocol exists for this, this panic-slash-euphoria that fills the asset from head to toe.
What the hell is this?
Then Steve Rogers is smiling at the asset again and the doubt flees as quickly as it appeared, washed out by the force of this man’s eager sincerity. Abruptly the asset does not care where this wildfire of unprecedented sensations came from, or why it is here within the asset’s body; what matters is that Steve Rogers is smiling and he should never be made to stop.
The asset thinks it would kill anyone or anything that caused Steve Rogers to lose his smile.
“We’ve got a lot of civilians waiting for us, pal; you mind helping me get them underground? Subway tunnels are probably the safest place for them to be right now.”
[ Mission Objective: Escort technicians out of the city and to Hydra stronghold before returning for maintenance
Override: New Objective: Do whatever the hell Steve Rogers wants ]
There are no protocols in place for this because Steve Rogers is not a handler nor has he been trained in commanding the Winter Soldier, but the asset is, for once, unconcerned about this lack of clear, concise direction, about not having established a chain of command. Without knowing why the asset is… keen to earn Steve Rogers’ approval and impress upon the man that the asset is worth keeping around. So it’s simple to nod in agreement. The asset will assist Steve Rogers in evacuating civilians from the worst of the mayhem, and it knows exactly who to start with.
The technicians are babbling, near incoherent with how they’re inconsiderately speaking over one another, as the asset determinedly herds them through another alleyway. It can recall having memorized a map of present-day New York City at one point (or, realistically, what was considered present-day New York the last time the asset was unfrozen and brought here for a mission) and draws on that information, tracing a particular path through the grid-like streets until the vacant-looking building comes into view. The technicians, though confused and worried about this turn of events, are far too frightened by the asset to protest as it directs them into the building and into the sub-basement that had been gutted and remodeled to meet Hydra’s standards.
And then, pointedly ignoring the stunned expressions they turn its way, the assets retreats into the elevator and returns to the surface, knowing full-well that only it possesses the necessary codes to leave the building.
Another strange feeling bubbles up in the asset’s chest, and the asset prods at it absently as it all but runs back to where it left Steve Rogers. Warm, like the last rush of emotion, but brighter somehow, like it exists at a higher frequency, or… the asset is not good at this, labeling feelings. All it knows for sure is that the emotion is incredibly positive and that is a direct result of encountering Steve Rogers in the field.
It’s… great, which is not a word the asset has ever applied to itself.
Steve Rogers is also great, the greatest even. The asset feels the need to wrap him in its arms and squeeze . Pleasantly, not in a violent way. Which, again, is a strange thought, but one that the asset likes very much.
Unfortunately, squeezing will have to wait, as Steve Rogers is busy rescuing an unconscious woman from the concrete slab that has her trapped when the asset bursts onto the street. It doesn’t pause to consider the best tactical option, just hurries to Steve Rogers’ side and adds its own not inconsiderable strength to the task, which proves rather easy with the two of them working together. The asset glows with newfound pride as Steve Rogers lifts the woman effortlessly into his impressively muscled arms and proceeds to deliver her to what the asset realizes is a makeshift hospital, which sports a single female doctor and a small but efficient group of armed soldiers. The asset is assured of their military status but debates whether or not they are actively in service. They hold themselves like the war is not long behind them if they are permanently stateside.
Logically the burst of pride is for accomplishing a job; in reality, the asset knows it is because of the heart-stopping smile it earns from Steve Rogers as he jogs back to the asset’s side.
“Didn’t catch your name,” Steve Rogers says, still grinning, in what is a clear invitation for the asset to volunteer this information. But, trivial as the question is, it has the asset mentally fumbling for a response. It was obvious before now that Steve Rogers does not know who the asset is, which is understandable (if vaguely disappointing) given Hydra’s penchant for secrecy, but that means the asset must decide how to introduce itself. As the asset? As the Winter Soldier? Which moniker will Steve Rogers find more appealing? He himself was satisfied by being known by his code name before the asset demanded otherwise from him; does that mean he’d look more favorably on calling the asset the Winter Soldier, or some derivative of that callsign?
It will have to do; the asset has nothing else.
The asset opens its mouth to respond but what comes out is “ Bucky .”
What .
That… that came from nowhere, or at least a corner of the asset’s mind previously untouched. Bucky. What the hell kind of name is Bucky ?
Still.
The asset curls his tongue against the back of his teeth, processing, recalling the way the name had sprung unprompted from his lips. That same rightness he felt upon hearing Steve Rogers name is there, infusing the name with a feeling similar to the one that has yet to vacate his chest. Bucky . He supposes that if Captain America is really Steve Rogers , then the Winter Soldier can be Bucky . More than that, he thinks he wants to be Bucky.
Either oblivious to his inner turmoil or reacting to it, Steve Rogers lays a hand, gentle but firm, on his shoulder, squeezing in a way that reminds the asset -- Bucky that he has as of right now not gotten to cover Steve Rogers’ body with own, which is tragic.
The accompanying smile makes up for it, a little.
“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” he says, and wow , Bucky it is then. Steve Rogers likes the name and that is reason enough to keep it, mental flailing or no. But then Steve Rogers is squinting at him, curious as he is wary, and what, what’s happened, what’s wrong? Bucky hasn’t done anything, it’s been seconds! “We haven’t… This is our first time meeting… right, Bucky?”
That is the exact question Bucky would like to ask Steve Rogers because nothing else explains the very pleasant feeling that permeates every inch of Bucky’s body if they have not met before.
Of course, that’s when everything goes to shit.
(The full-body cuddling will have to wait until later)